Last week marked a huge milestone in this unexpected pregnancy adventure of mine: I hit the official halfway mark — 20 weeks. Of course, several of those weeks were spent not knowing that I was pregnant, and for another couple of those weeks, I wasn’t really pregnant at all, but still. I’m happy to have the first half of the journey behind me.
People keep asking me how I’m feeling, and my very anticlimactic answer to that question is always, “Fine, I guess.”
I mean, does anyone really want to know how I’m feeling? Do they want to hear about the stubbornly high blood sugars that have started stalking me every morning, no matter how carefully I count the carbs in my wee bowl of cereal? Do they want to know what a relief it is to resign myself to the fact that I do need a big huge bra, and that I’m so happy I finally have one? (Because damn, what a difference.)
And when they ask more specific questions, like whether the baby will sleep in a bassinet or a crib, or how much time I might take off work, I want to say, “I don’t know! Let’s talk about fun things like baby clothes and other things my child really needs, like this stuffed animal:
Now, would you like to come into my room with me and watch me sleep?”
Sloth has always been a major interest of mine, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that all I really want to do anymore is sleep. Or read, with the intention of falling asleep.
I love all of my friends, and I miss seeing them more often, and I feel so lame and embarrassed that I’m not the “Go get ’em!” pregnant lady I always thought I would be, but I just can’t.
This is the hardest, weirdest thing I have ever done, and whether the causes are physical or emotional, I feel like every single day sucks the energy right out of me.
A big part of it all, I’m sure, is that diabetes is playing a bigger role in my day-to-day life than it ever did before. I mean, I always (kind of) counted carbs and checked my blood sugar and watched my CGM, but now I feel like the future of the entire universe hangs on every food-related decision I make. Every high blood sugar feels like a moral failing, and the lows are getting sneakier and more severe as the weeks progress. It certainly turns going out to dinner into a relaxing, enjoyable event.
Through it all, though, the baby has cultivated a love for dancing. Really, I’m half-expecting to see her perform an intricately choreographed routine to George Michael’s Freedom shortly after delivery. I can’t figure out which body specific body parts are in use, but the thrashing and poking and rolling and cabbage-patching are almost constant.
It makes me happy to know that someone’s picking up the party-animal slack, and that that someone is my own tiny daughter. Hopefully, 19 weeks from now, she can help me get my own groove back.